


Ownership

by kakaitalover



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: BDSM, Established Relationship, Intimacy, M/M, Marking, Non-Explicit Reference To Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-31
Updated: 2014-08-31
Packaged: 2018-02-15 12:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2228517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kakaitalover/pseuds/kakaitalover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gloves come off first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Longing

The gloves come off first.

Then the greatcoat – silk wool, heavy and warm and expensive – lands on the floor in a crumpled heap that will make his dry-cleaners scowl ferociously.

He stands, quiescent, as the equally fine jacket, shirt, tie, and undershirt flutter down in similar disarray. The vest is carefully set aside, and he knows he will be wearing it tonight, and that it will be forever unwearable by tomorrow morning. It has been a long, unpleasant day, and for a moment he imagines leaning into the body before him, being embraced by the long limbs currently disrobing him. He ignores the impulse, fixes his gaze on the opposite wall. That is not how these nights go.

Large, dextrous hands move to his buckle, and a mocking baritone curls into his left ear. “A belt this strong, this supple? Did you put it on this morning especially for me, for this?”

He did.

He knows that with two words, with one, he can change the tone of the whole evening – of everything. The mockery in that deep voice will shift to delight, those dark eyes he can never avoid for long, etiquette be damned, will light with real pleasure. The fierce, crackling, firestorm heat between them will melt into a softer, gentler warmth. Thinking of it makes his knees weak, sends a shiver down his spine and a bolt of unbearable longing through his gut.

He says nothing, lifts an eyebrow in wordless mockery of the very idea.

Later, when the skin of his thighs and buttocks is patterned with welts from the belt, when he's on his knees worshiping the cock he's been allowed to place in his mouth, when his throat is raw and his eyes are damp and stinging from the hand yanking too cruelly, too wonderfully, on his hair, his mind crashes to a halt as the other hand comes to rest lightly on his nape, just where a collar might rest if either of them could afford the risks of his wearing one. If he was willing to wear one. If one was offered in the first place. The hand curls around to his throat, thumb hovering right over his pulse-point. He doesn't make a sound, not a moan or a gasp or a sigh, doesn't lean into the hand. He doesn't pause, doesn't give any indication that the light touch on his jugular is searing his mind's eye. He's never wanted to wear a collar for anyone before, isn't certain why he wants one now, isn't even sure it would be enough. He'd never even think of wearing one for anyone else.

After everything is over for the night, he lies nestled in long, skinny arms that hide surprising strength and pretends to sleep. As he lies awake he imagines spending a quiet evening sitting on the floor with a gentle hand in his hair while he rests his head comfortably on his lover's knee.


	2. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't ready yet, but Harry can wait.

The gloves come off first.

Then the overcoat – whatever it's made of, it feels heavy and warm and expensive, and he draws no little satisfaction from the knowledge that it will be a wrinkled mess by morning – lands on the floor in a crumpled heap that he knows is making his lover's inner neat-freak twitch.

The equally expensive jacket, shirt, tie, and undershirt flutter down in similar disarray. The vest he sets aside carefully, picturing John in nothing else, bent over and begging desperately for another blow, for another thrust, for permission to fill his mouth or permission to come. He intends it to be ruined by tomorrow. Here he pauses for a moment, because the man in front of him suddenly looks tired and worn and every day of his age, and he has to fight the urge to pull the idiot into a hug and just hold him for a while. It won't be appreciated, he knows. John is coming to terms with this, but he isn't quite ready for more.

The moment passes, and he moves to John's belt, murmuring jibes into the damaged ear. “A belt this strong, this supple? Did you put it on this morning especially for me, for this?”

He did, Harry is almost sure. John likes the feel of this belt, heavy and soft and solid enough to land a strong blow against flesh. He wears it when he wants to spend the day anticipating what's coming – and Harry makes sure never to disappoint. He can't turn down this plea, silent though it is, not when John is still so chary of making any real requests. Idly, Harry wonders if this time the man will admit it, if he'll take that step. Maybe...

No. He says nothing, lifts an eyebrow in wordless mockery of the very idea. Harry stares into those money-green eyes, knowing soon they'll brighten to resemble smooth, deceptively delicate-looking jade. Later still they'll soften and darken until they look like the sea Harry remembers from childhood travels with his father, deep and endless and full of mysteries. He has to be patient, he knows, or he'll ruin this entirely, but it's so hard sometimes not to just forcibly gift the man with what he wants. Harry can wait, though. He can, he will, he has to, because this is too precious to risk.

Later, he looks down at John and thinks that he's beautiful like this, on his knees with damp lashes and damp cheeks and damp, reddened lips wrapped around Harry's own cock. He's beautiful, and Harry wants him, wants to keep him forever, to claim him and mark him where everyone can see it and know this incredible man belongs to someone, someone who isn't them. The hand he doesn't have wrapped in John's hair comes to rest lightly on his nape, just where a collar might rest, and he feels his lover's breathing hitch, just for a second, before the stubborn bastard continues like it means nothing to him, like the idea of wearing Harry's mark doesn't make his guts quiver and his chest knot. Like he doesn't care if he's owned or not. Liar.

Not that Harry plans to put a collar on him. Collars can be taken off, as he well knows, even if it's rarely easy or pleasant for either party. Scars are much more lasting. When John finally works up the nerve to ask, he's going to leave a mark that won't ever fade completely, and John will finally be sure that he's not leaving, ever, that there is nothing casual or temporary or easily dismissed about what's between them – never has been, really, even when they'd just met. Of course with something that permanent, certainty and willingness are both pretty damn fucking important, on both sides. He won't be like the men in his past, like Justin and the others. He won't take what hasn't been offered, won't force John to accept something he isn't ready for or sure he wants. He won't. Which is why he's waiting, even though it kills him sometimes, even though he knows John wants more but he Just. Won't. Ask.

He'll let John choose the place for it, that's only right. Maybe over his hip, where Harry can brush a hand without being obvious, reminding them both that it's there. Perhaps on the back of the neck, where he's stroking right now. That's a good, practical spot – easily hidden beneath a shirt collar, nearly as easily revealed if needed. The allusion to feline mating habits tweaks Harry's sense of humor, too, makes him grin a little. It's a good spot. Just not the one he really wants.

He curls his hand around John's neck, nudges his thumb against the man's jugular, strokes from jawline to collarbone and back. He wonders if John would choose here – probably not. Almost certainly not, in fact – John is usually both highly practical and much fonder of subtlety than Harry is. Still, he imagines tipping John's head back and sinking his teeth into that smooth column's fluttering pulse, biting down until he draws blood, until the skin there will always bear the imprint of his teeth. He'll leave a scar right on his throat, too high to be completely hidden by any collar, so everyone from Mab to Michael to Hendricks to Helen fucking Beckitt can see it and know John Marcone let someone claim him there – and that someone wanted John enough to claim him forever, even if they never learn who.

He pictures John sitting at a desk in one of his offices, calm and unruffled and absently fingering a long-healed mark on his throat as he fills out paperwork, and he comes hard with barely enough time to grunt a warning.

After everything is over for the night, he wraps himself around the shorter man and listens to his breathing as it evens out. This is the only time he really gets to cuddle his lover, and he understands, he does. People like him and John know that tenderness and intimacy are far deadlier weapons than pain could ever hope to be, as easily wielded against you by yourself as by anyone else. It's one thing to admit that you like being ordered around and tied up and struck while you're having sex, in the heat of the moment. It's quite another to confess that you crave quiet words of praise, a safe place to kneel, and someone to serve in less heated occasions like breakfast or a night in or snatched moments together between meetings and battles. John isn't ready to ask yet, but that's alright. Harry can wait. As he drifts off to sleep he smiles and dreams of spending a quiet evening reading aloud, gently carding his hand through the silvering hair on his lover's head where it rests comfortably against his knee.


End file.
